


Untitled TWINLM Drabble

by Pterodactyl



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4270980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pterodactyl/pseuds/Pterodactyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is a drabble set in the same 'verse as my 2012 blaine big bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled TWINLM Drabble

When Kurt was a kid, he was  _loud_. Unashamedly so. Burt can clearly remember his squeaky, shrill voice cutting through the crowds at the supermarket as he begged for a new magazine or a toy. He can also remember, with a twist of shame, making Kurt leave behind the cooking magazines he wanted and shoving Batman ones into his tiny little hands, ignoring the distraught expression on Kurt’s face as he worked himself up into a tantrum.

 

But he was quiet, too. On his first day of school, his (detested) Spider-Man rucksack slung across his thin little shoulders, he’d barely even looked at Burt before his mother took him by the hand and led him down the sidewalk. When Elizabeth was at work and Kurt would sit at the back of the garage and colour, wrinkling his nose and frowning whenever one of the workers pretended to drop an oily part on his neatly coloured picture or leave a greasy smudge on his cheek.

 

Burt remembers being ecstatic when Kurt was born, looking ahead to working at the shop, playing football in the back garden, watching baseball games on a Saturday afternoon. He remembers the sudden sinking feeling when Kurt’s little head had popped up on a shopping trip and he had pointed to the bright red heels Elizabeth was holding and demanded a pair for his birthday.

 

“No,” Burt had said automatically, “Kurt, little boys don’t wear high heels.”

 

“But Daddy,” Kurt whined, “ _All_  I want is a pair of  _sensible heels_.”

 

It was a phrase right out of Lizzie’s mouth; she laughed, Burt wrinkled his noise and took Kurt by the shoulders, walking him towards the kid’s section of the shoe shop. “C’mon, kiddo,” he’d said, “How about these Batman shoes? They light up, see?”

 

That evening, as they’d sat on the couch, Burt had muttered “It’s like having a goddamn daughter.”

 

“Oh, Burt,” Lizzie sighed, “He’s just going through a phase.”

 

“It’s worrying. He wanted  _heels_ , Lizzie.”

 

“He’s just a kid.”

 

“If we’re not careful, he’s going to turn out a fag,” Burt had grumbled.

 

Lizzie hadn’t said anything, but Burt had felt the disappointment radiating off her the entire evening.

 

After that, Kurt had really been Lizzie’s kid. Burt had been pleased to note his interest in engines (later learning that it stemmed from Lizzie telling him he could bedazzle them if he wanted) but even that couldn’t fix the awkwardness around him. The constant niggling in the back of his mind.  _If I wanted a daughter, I’d have a daughter. I want a son._

 

Kurt tried, of course, with his round, earnest eyes and his hopeful smile, presenting Burt with glitter pictures and bedazzled pasta sculptures and asking him every day over dinner how his day was. But Burt didn’t know how to reply, didn’t know how to treat a boy who didn’t like to do boy things. Lizzie told him quietly once that Kurt adored him, and he needed to step up to the role of the father, but Burt didn’t know what to do about that. So he didn’t do anything

 

And then three years later Burt found himself carrying a sobbing Kurt down the stairs of their house, his stomach churning and his mind spinning.  _Lizzie’s dead? No. She can’t be dead._

 

But she was, and suddenly it was just him and Kurt, sitting quietly in a too-bright hospital room. Kurt staring at him with dark shadows under his drowsy eyes, Kurt waking up screaming so loud his voice gave out, Kurt clinging to him in the night and sobbing about monsters. Burt didn’t know what to do before, and he didn’t know what to do then, either.

 

The funeral was quiet, he remembers that much. He remembers Kurt with his bright blue cast, asking loudly and fearfully why Mama’s coffin was closed. He remembers him screaming at the top of his voice that it wasn’t fair, that he wanted Mama back, that the monster shouldn’t have taken her away.

 

He remembers the men that came to town in battered trucks, who asked him stupid questions until he managed to turn it around and get some answers himself. He remembers reading the journals in the attic, reading about the mistake Lizzie made in high school, reading about the _demon_  she called to get rid of it, reading about how she thought that she’d  _given_  it the firstborn child it wanted.

 

Reading that it wanted Kurt, instead.

 

He remembers driving away, seeing Kurt’s pale face pressed against the window of his aunt’s house.

 

The hunters had been good to him, but no amount of prepping could have prepared him for the time he had to shoot something that looked human. He has a scar on his ribs reminding him not to hesitate again.

 

He remembers the first time Kurt shot a gun, ten years old and white with terror, his hands shaking so violently Burt couldn’t prise the gun out of his fingers once he’d finally hit the can. He remembers the same situation two years later, how Kurt’s hands had been perfectly steady, his lips tight with grim determination.

 

He remembers thinking  _what the hell have I done to you?_

 

**

 

Burt remembers the first day back in their old house.

 

It was just like he remembered from the times they’d passed through to grab something. The table was clean, though a thick layer of dust lay on the mantelpiece and the kitchen sideboards. Kurt, who’d caught a nasty chest infection, had immediately started hacking up a lung, and Burt had ended up buying them a crappy motel room and calling a cleaning agency to spruce up the house before they returned.

 

The next day they’d entered a house clean as the day they’d left it. Kurt had trailed fingers over the counters of a house he hadn’t seen for years, his eyes wide and he looked so fucking  _young_ , Burt had tried to pull him into a hug, and Kurt had just shrugged him off, letting his bag fall from his shoulder and stomping up the stairs.

 

Burt had followed slowly, giving Kurt time, letting him breathe. When he’d reached the top floor Kurt was silhouetted in the doorway of Burt and Lizzie’s old room. He was slumped against the doorway, his hand clamped over his mouth, and Burt could see tears streaming down his cheeks, his shoulders trembling.

 

“Kiddo?” he’d asked, unsure of how to approach. Kurt had turned his back, his chest heaving. “Go away.”

 

“Kurt –“

 

“Leave me  _alone_.”

 

“Buddy,” Burt had rushed forwards and grabbed Kurt into his arms, clutching him tight. Kurt felt foreign in Burt’s arms. He was no longer a child, no longer soft around the edges and trying desperately to be strong at the front of a church. His head no longer tucked under Burt’s chin, and his shoulders were broad and tense under Burt’s hands. Kurt was almost stronger than he was, and he struggled out of Burt’s embrace and wiped his face roughly, sniffing hard.

 

“Son…”

 

“Leave it, Dad,” Kurt snapped, but his voice cracked and broke and a fresh flood of tears tracked down his face.

 

Burt didn’t know what to do. He stood there, one hand held out, as Kurt turned his back and squared his shoulders and walked away.

 

How long has it been, Burt wondered, since I hugged you? Since I did  _anything?_

 

_“Kurt really admires you, you know. If you don’t start trying, eventually he’s going to pull away from you. One day you’ll reach out for one of those rare hugs and he’ll turn his back.”_

 

Lizzie was right, he though bitterly.

 

He gave Kurt a few minutes to get himself together, and then started down the stairs. When he reached the door to the basement it was open, and a quick glance down the stairs revealed why. Kurt was slumped halfway down, his face in his hands, and he was crying in the sort of way Burt hadn’t heard him cry in years. Unrestrained, hysterical, like his world was falling down around him, his arms around his ankles and his face pressed into his knees. Burt didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to comfort his kid.

 

Never had Burt Hummel felt like more of a failure.

 

**

 

Burt never usually gets back from work early on Wednesdays, but it had been a slow day at the shop and they’d sent him home to put his feet up. When he pulls into his road, he notices a familiar car parked on the street.

 

Blaine isn’t around often, and Burt knows it’s because Kurt feels uncomfortable showing any kind of affection towards him with his father around. Burt doesn’t really know how he feels about that. On one hand, he – doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to treat Blaine now there’s a possibility that he’s been deflowering Burt’s son. On the other, he feels he should be pushing his acceptance of Kurt’s sexuality.

 

When he pushes open the door a soft wave of music washes over him. Burt doesn’t know the singer but he’s heard it drifting up from Kurt’s room in the evenings. He toes off his shoes and walks past the door to the den and then pauses.

 

Kurt and Blaine are sitting opposite each other on the couch, the scrabble board on the tiny over-the-couch table Burt had bought when Kurt had forbidden him from walking around after his heart attack. Blaine’s leg is stretched out, his foot against Kurt’s knee, and his son’s fingers are looped around his ankle, rubbing idly at the bone there. Blaine is watching him, his eyes soft and a small smile on his lips as Kurt huffs and grumbles over the tiles he’s picked.

 

“Hey boys,” Burt says awkwardly, and Kurt’s head snaps up. “Dad? I didn’t think – you weren’t supposed to be home.” He’s pulled his hand off Blaine’s ankle like he’s been caught raiding the cookie jar.

 

“Hi Mr. Hummel,” Blaine says, waving. Burt smiles a little weakly at him. “It was a slow day at the shop. I’m gonna go get changed.”

 

“Okay,” Kurt says, “See you in a little while.”

 

Burt takes his time upstairs, letting the boys get themselves together, and when he returns downstairs with a well-rehearsed and gentle nudge for Blaine to leave, the den is empty and music is drifting up the stairs from Kurt’s room. Frowning, Burt descends the stairs and stops when he sees what they’re doing.

 

They’re – waltzing, he thinks, or tangoing or something, but Blaine is pulled tight against his son’s chest and they’re laughing as they move around the room, dodging furniture. Blaine trips over his own feet as Kurt spins him and laughs, clutching Kurt’s shoulders to keep his balance.

 

Burt is struck quite suddenly by a memory of dancing with Lizzie before she got pregnant, on a hot summers day. Kurt looks – when he looks at Blaine his eyes are just like his mother’s.

 

Burt clears his throat before he knows what he’s doing and the two boys spring apart, their faces flushing dark red.

 

“Hey,” Burt says awkwardly, “I just…wanted to check if you were staying for dinner, Blaine?”

 

“I, uh, Kurt?” Blaine turns to Kurt, his eyes wide, and Kurt shifts like he wants to grab his hand.

 

“I’ll make sure to tell Carole to set you an extra place,” Burt says, nodding, and then turns to walk up the stairs.

 

He’s trying.


End file.
